Picture Perfect Revenge
by rukushaka
Summary: Sherlock has been abducted by Moriarty. John is receiving pictures. Based on a gifset prompt, offscreen violence, no slash.


**I don't own the show, yada yada yada. Story based on this gifset and prompt from anothermindpalace on tumblr:  
**  
the-hobbits-smial dot tumblr dot com slash post slash 62023057522 slash anothermindpalace-sherlock-au-after-being

**xxxxxxx**

anothermindpalace:

**Sherlock AU!  
**↳ After being abducted and tortured by Mycroft, Jim Moriarty is bent on revenge. He decides to have a little fun with Sherlock. After sending him a few pictures, Mycroft also receives a phone call from Moriarty.

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**I wrote this in an hour; might flesh it out more fully someday but for it'll do for now.**

* * *

The first Greg knew of it was when an ashen John Watson burst into his office and demanded he check his mobile. Frowning, Greg opened the top drawer of his desk and did so.

The single picture he'd been forwarded had him letting loose a string of swear words before meeting John's gaze with horrified eyes.

John just nodded grimly and keyed in a number on his own phone.

"Mycroft. He's got Sherlock."

A pause.

"I'm at the Yard, I'm with Greg now."

Another pause.

"Right. See you soon," and as he hung up, "Mycroft's on his way. We're to stay put, stay calm, not make contact, etcetera."

Greg nodded wordlessly, shook his head, and asked, "He sent you the picture first, then?"

John swallowed and dropped into the nearest chair, "Yeah. I'd just got back from my shift at the surgery. Left my phone in the kitchen while I had a shower; checked it when I was done, found that, and came right over." He passed a shaking hand across his face. "Sherlock's already been awake for two days, he was working on something involved fingernails when I left this morning - I told him he needed to sleep, that he couldn't just go and go and go without a rest. There was no sign of a disturbance when I got back, no furniture pushed out of place or papers toppled over, so - "

He waved a hand despairingly and broke off, meeting Greg's gaze with haunted eyes.

"Easy, Johnny," he murmured, "Take it easy. It's not your fault, alright? Knowing Moriarty, he would've gotten in anyway."

John nodded, looking thoroughly unconvinced, "Yeah. I know, I just - "

His phone beeped where it lay on the desk, signalling a received message.

For a long moment they stared at it as if it were a snake poised to strike, then Greg shoved his chair back abruptly, "Leave it, John. Don't touch it until Mycroft gets here. Coffee?"

"Co - " John's red-rimmed eyes swung upwards from the phone; there was a crease between his brows as he repeated incredulously, "Coffee?"

"Coffee, yeah. Brownish liquid, hot and sweet and not entirely terrible out of our machine: d'you want some?"

Master of the Social Arts as he was, it seemed to take John a disturbingly long time to realise that the offer was purely an effort at distraction, "Oh. Yeah, alright then."

They were halfway through their cups when Mycroft came striding into the office, clicking the door shut and locking it behind him. The man looked as composed as ever, save for a slight tightening around the mouth and eyes, "Greg. John. Any word?"

"Ah, yeah," Greg hastily put his mug down and reached for the phone as John turned away from the window, "Came in about twenty minutes ago, we were waiting for you before we checked it."

"Good. Thank you," was the murmured reply as the elder Holmes came around the desk to join them.

On the screen, the picture message opened.

Mycroft drew a sharp breath; Greg flinched, tearing his gaze away from the image and knowing the memory would stay with him forever; John barely made it to the rubbish bin before he was matter-of-factly heaving up his lunch.

"My car is downstairs," Mycroft stated, his tone more command than anything else. He plucked the mobile out of Greg's hand, blanking the screen and tucking it into his pocket, "We can base our operations from my townhouse, I'm far better equipped to deal with this there. When you're ready, John?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm - " John took a rasping breath, darting a desperate look toward the pocket that held the phone, "I'm just - oh, _Sherlock._"

Within minutes they were swept downstairs and into the purring black beast. Greg maintained a grim silence as the car wound through traffic, thoughts equal parts anguish and rage; John, ensconced in the middle, was trembling, whether from anger or distress or both he couldn't tell; Mycroft, on John's far side, remained straight-backed and stone-faced, fielding information on his mobile quicker than Greg could follow.

The next few hours were a whirlwind of motionless action. None of the three men moved from Mycroft's den as agents came and went and anonymously gorgeous assistants brought coffee and sandwiches and blankets. The web surrounding Moriarty drew ever tighter even as time grew shorter and the few pictures they received grew more violent.

Finally, shortly after 3am, Mycroft's mobile rang.

Greg lifted his head, peering up through sandpapery eyes from where he sat on the floor, leaning against the couch containing an exhausted, unconscious John Watson. Mycroft met his eyes intently before lifting the phone to his ear and turning toward the window.

"I'm listening."

Silence.

"Let him go." It was a command, and contained much more steel than silk.

More silence, and then Mycroft rang off and dropped his hand from his ear.

He took a moment - _to compose himself? _Greg wondered - before turning back to face the room.

"What did he say?" Greg's voice emerged low and rough.

"Nothing important," Mycroft's eyes were narrowing, a mask of grim determination falling into place over pained eyes and chapped lips, "Get some sleep, Greg. I'll wake you when it's time."

A shiver ran down his spine, and he suddenly remembered John relating the story of that first meeting with Mycroft, and Sherlock afterward calling him _the most dangerous man you'll ever meet_. Greg had always laughed at the melodrama; but seeing the man like this, all protective elder brother crossed with an avenging angel, he could well believe the epithet.

"Time for what?" he asked, letting his head fall back against the couch as his eyes blinked tiredly.

Mycroft's teeth showed in a singularly mirthless grin. "Time, Gregory, to get my brother back."


End file.
